


A Constellation Anyone Could Read

by Cinaed



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Doriath, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 06:24:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4596273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One winter's night in Doriath, a celebration and a starlit sky reveal a few truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Constellation Anyone Could Read

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> For sath, who wanted something set in Doriath. Hope you enjoy! 
> 
> The title comes from "Starlight" by William Meredith.

“Beleg!” Túrin said as Beleg entered the cabin, and turned so sweet a smile upon him that Beleg knew that he was drunk.

Beleg stilled, looking at the telling flush on Túrin’s face. Then he studied the amused looks of his fellow wardens and Eriol’s bottle of dorwinion wine. He almost frowned, but a second glance showed him that Túrin had drunk just enough to be merry and not enough to sink deeper into his usual melancholy. Beleg had witnessed the first and only time Túrin had crossed that line. He didn’t wish to see it again.

But Túrin’s smile was easy and without shadow, and Beleg felt an answering smile rise to his lips. Brushing the snow from his cloak and boots, he nodded towards the bottle. “Celebrating, are we?”

Túrin looked half-pleased, half-embarrassed as Nail laughed and said, “Don’t tell us you haven’t realised, Beleg! It’s been six months since Túrin joined us.”

“Six months,” Beleg echoed, blinking. His disbelief gave way to surprise as he thought over his memories and realised that it was true. He grinned. “That’s indeed cause for celebration.”

“Though you ought to have waited for us,” Edwen said, passing Beleg and snatching the bottle from Eriol. He tipped it towards his mouth and then sighed deeply. “Not even a single drop spared! You might have thought of me and Beleg on sentry duty, enduring the cold and snow.”

“As though we would be such thoughtless friends!” said Nail, bowing and producing a second bottle from behind his back. He held it out to Beleg first. There was mischief in his eyes as he said, “Come, Beleg, toast to Túrin’s health.”

Beleg accepted the bottle, though he wondered at Nail’s grin. “I will, gladly.” He turned to Túrin, his gaze lingering on the scar upon his cheek, work of an orc’s arrow that would have pierced Túrin’s eye had one of Beleg’s arrows not deflected it in mid-air. “May every enemy’s weapon miss its mark,” he said, and drank.  

“We should toast to your health as well, Beleg,” Túrin said, warmly sincere. This earned a round of laughter, and colour rose in his cheeks. His chin lifted, his grey eyes narrowing. His smile was replaced by a stubborn look, as though he would argue Beleg’s merits if Beleg didn’t intervene.

Hastily, Beleg said, “That’s a kind thought, Túrin, but there’s no need.”

But Túrin had latched onto this idea with the tenacity of the intoxicated. “Of course there is a need! Why shouldn’t we toast your health?” He touched Beleg’s shoulder and smiled earnestly. “I wouldn’t be standing here if not for you. You’ve saved my life several times over.”

He spoke with such open affection that heat warmed Beleg’s face. From the corner of his eye he saw Nail and Eriol grin in delight. Obviously this wasn’t the first time today that Túrin had sung his praises. Wine must have loosened his tongue.

Edwen took the bottle, his features settling into a look too solemn to be genuine. He cleared his throat. “To Beleg, our dear chief march-warden! Let _his_ arrows never miss their desired mark.” For a second the words seemed innocent, and then his grave expression disappeared as he laughed and downed half the bottle.

Nail and Eriol laughed as well, but Beleg watched Túrin, who frowned. He seemed to have missed the lewd double-meaning of Edwen's words, but he recognised that the laughter was at his or Beleg’s expense. Before Túrin could take further offence, Beleg pressed his arm and said, “Come, Túrin. You haven’t seen the marches covered in snow yet, I think. It is a beautiful sight.”

“Though doubtless Túrin thinks that Beleg is more so,” Nail said. He spoke quietly so that Túrin wouldn’t hear, but Beleg did, flushing and shooting him a quelling look.

Once outside, Túrin stared up at the sky, wavering a little on his feet. The winter night’s chill brought a deeper flush to his unprotected face until his ears and the tip of his nose turned pink with cold. He shivered. It was perhaps a sign of his intoxication that he didn’t protest when Beleg offered him his cloak. He left the hood thrown back, though Beleg didn’t know if it was an act of carelessness or defiance. A few snowflakes settled lightly on his dark hair and clung to his eyelashes.

Quelling the foolish impulse to brush the snow from Túrin’s hair, Beleg said, “See? Beautiful.”  

Túrin made a sound of agreement, still looking upward. There was a furrow in his brow. For once however it didn’t seem to be caused by melancholy, and instead only deep thought.

“Do elves tell stories about the stars?” he asked suddenly. “Perhaps it is something only Men do.” Before Beleg could answer, he pointed. “Look, there is the Archer, just as Sador said.” He smiled. “Those stars make up the outline of a mighty Archer, but I think you would best him in a feat of skill.”

If Beleg hadn't known Túrin was drunk before, he would have known now. He covered his pleased embarrassment with a laugh and a shake of his head. “You’ve had too much wine,” he said, and touched Túrin’s cold cheek affectionately.

Unexpectedly, Túrin leaned into his hand, his eyes closing even as he muttered a denial. His head was heavy against Beleg’s palm, his skin cold and rough from the wind. If Beleg moved his fingers just a little, he would touch the scar he had studied earlier.

Beleg didn’t move, rooted to the spot by uncertainty. Yearning rose up in him, so sudden and strong that he couldn’t speak.

“I’m not some boy who can’t hold his wine,” Túrin said into the silence. Quietly, half under his breath as though he hadn’t meant to speak, he added, “Do you still think me a child?”

“No,” said Beleg, finding his voice. At times it was easy to forget how quickly Men grew, to look at Túrin and see him still as the boy he had found shivering yet unafraid in the woods. This was not one of those times. He shook his head. It was difficult to think clearly, with Túrin so near, grown fully into manhood, his head still resting against Beleg's hand. “No, I know you are not. But even a man may drink too much, if the company is too pleasing and his friends too generous with their wine.”

Túrin laughed a little, a quiet sound half-caught in his throat. “I like Eriol and Nail well enough, but I most prefer your company.” He lifted his head too quickly; Beleg had no time to school his look into something less revealing. Túrin’s face softened with astonishment. “Beleg?”

Beleg was no coward. He had never fled in battle, but now he retreated, dropping his hand to his side and rocking back a little on his heels. He tried to laugh. It came out rough and unconvincing. “Careful with your compliments, lest I grow too big a head to fit through the cabin door.”

“Beleg,” Túrin said, in a new tone. His expression changed to the reckless look Beleg often saw seconds before Túrin’s latest incautious charge at their enemies. He pressed forward, his hands landing heavily upon Beleg’s shoulders and holding him fast. Whatever he found as he peered down into Beleg’s face made him smile, brilliant and a little wondering. It was even brighter a smile than the one that had greeted Beleg at the cabin door, and Beleg was dazed by it.

Before Beleg could regain his senses, Túrin kissed him. The kiss was clumsy, Túrin’s wine-sweetened mouth cold and hard and over-eager, but still Beleg longed to kiss him back. With effort, he turned his face away and said as steadily as he could, “You are drunk.”

“I would kiss you sober,” Túrin assured him, still smiling.

Beleg laughed helplessly. He felt as though Túrin held his heart in his fist. It hurt to breathe. Túrin made it sound so simple, as though there weren’t a dozen reasons why this would be a terrible mistake. Beleg shook his head. He touched Túrin’s hand. “We shouldn’t.”

Túrin’s voice was steady, though his smile had begun to weaken at the edges at Beleg’s words. “Beleg, the wine didn’t put such thoughts into my head. I’m not blind. I know Nail and Edwen sometimes--” A thought seemed to strike him. Beneath the flush from the winter wind Túrin turned pale. His eyes searched Beleg’s face again. He said slowly, “Edwen and Nail desire each other. But perhaps you don’t want--”

“No, I do,” Beleg said quickly. Perhaps he should have lied, but he couldn’t bear the horror and uncertainty creeping into Túrin’s face. He relented a little, shaking his head again. “You didn’t mistake me.”

“Then why protest?” Túrin’s hands slid from Beleg’s shoulders to his elbows, clasping them lightly. He smiled again, tentatively. “If it’s because I have drunk too much wine, time will remedy it.”

It was time that he feared the most, Beleg almost said, but the words were lost as Túrin leaned forward and kissed him again. The carefulness of this kiss when Túrin so often forgot his own strength drove back the knowledge that Beleg couldn’t save Túrin from old age, when years had leached all his power away.

“Please,” Túrin whispered, and Beleg’s resolve crumbled. “Please, Beleg.” He drew in a startled breath as Beleg pulled him close.

“I should tell you no,” he said, looking up into Túrin’s dear features. Beleg fixed this moment in his memory, letting his eyes trace over every scar and freckle upon Túrin's face, noting how dark his hair and eyes looked above Beleg's borrowed white cloak, his hopeful expression lit by starlight. Then he stroked Túrin’s cheek. “That would be wise.” He shook his head and laughed, both joyful and pained all at once. “But I love you too dearly to be sensible.”

Túrin kissed his fingertips. His mouth was cold from the winter wind, but his smile was warm, his eyes fixed upon Beleg's face as though he was memorising this moment as well. “If you are not sensible, then I'm a fool. Let us be unwise together.”

“Very well,” Beleg said, and banished the chill from Túrin’s mouth with another kiss. 


End file.
